FRANKS, Bill

by JESUIT

  At the end of the village area, Ignatious turned to take one last look at the paradise that was, noticing the thin clouds of airborne insects already gathering around the buildings. His heart wept for his stricken companions, even Ottomier who had brought the tragedy upon them all. Pictures entered his mind, of Father Christian, a tough, once dedicated missionary and friend, the two young nuns whose lives had been prematurely ended, and the Australian who never got the chance to experience the happiness that, for many months, had been enjoyed by the survivors of that awful storm.

  It had been a long journey with many truths being brought to the missionaries about their own vulnerabilities and failings at a time when their faiths had come to be tested. Ignatious had learned a lot, not only in practical experience, but about himself – and he felt strong; felt that he had, with only a couple of diversions, come through it all with his commitment to God in good shape. Even the deaths would send innocent people to his Maker; a good deed done.

  Putting the tribal deaths out of his mind, he moved on. As he would later tell the parents of Kylie Johnson - he got up and walked off while they were sleeping.

  Making his way to the clear-water river, he filled one of the animal-skin flasks with the pure liquid and secured the stopper tightly. Taking a deep breath, he walked towards the forbidding foliage that marked the beginning of the jungle.

  Without the assistance of his companions, it took Ignatious until dusk to finally reach the position where the boat had been left all that time ago. Even if still there, he doubted if the craft would be in a fit state to engage the unpredictable waters.

  Almost at exhaustion, he hacked his way over the final stretch of jungle and fell into the small bay. While lying on his front, he offered up prayers to the Good Lord for delivering him safely. There had been many dangers to be faced en-route, causing him to use his gradually tiring brainpower to repel the various animals; some purely mean-minded, some mischievous and two or three downright dangerous predators.

  His worst moment had come when, finding it difficult to concentrate, he had been confronted by the rarely seen and deadly Bushmaster snake, the bite of which is highly poisonous. It had slithered across his path two or three times before sliding quickly and menacingly directly towards him.

  Concentrating with all the power he possessed, Ignatious watched in dread as the cold reptile continued in its mission, with jaws beginning to open, ready to deliver the fatal bite. The sweat poured from the horrified priest as he realised that his powers might not, after all, be enough to save him now, when he most needed them.

  ‘Go! Go! Back!’ he urged in his mind, even using Spanish and Portuguese translations in his urgency, not considering that the thought-waves bore no language, being merely electrical impulses.

  At a distance of no more than a foot from his exposed legs, the snake started to rise up in striking mode, the evil jaws now wider, cold, evil eyes looking at him with deep malice. And, in that position, it stopped. Ignatious braced himself for the strike that he simply did not have the energy to evade, his eyes fixed fearfully on the reptile. For several seconds, the two remained as they were and then, as if at a signal, the snake closed its mouth, dropped to its natural position and squirmed away into the dense jungle.

  Rigid with fear, Ignatious remained where he was, gathering his spirits and his mind. At length, he moved but the trembling stayed with him for the next half hour, the task of hacking the foliage ultimately helping to concentrate his mind.

  Raising himself wearily onto all fours, Ignatious crawled to the boat’s docking point, the backpack weighing heavily as he moved. Through the gathering dusk, he could just make out the hull of the craft. It was still here! However, he wondered, what condition would it now be in?

  Using tremendous willpower, he got to his feet and stumbled to the boat. Resting on the starboard side for a few seconds, gulping in huge breaths of warm air, he summoned more strength. Slowly levering himself along, he inspected the timber structure, both outside and in.

  The rear of the craft was in the water and Ignatious found himself waist-high as he checked the rear, the relative coolness of the river being most welcome to the tired and hot body. Moving from the water, along the port side, he slowly completed the task. Then he had to climb aboard and check the deck and roomy cabin.

  Surprisingly, the boat was in decent condition, the thick paintwork on the outside providing ample protection. One or two of the deck boards had warped but, all in all, miraculously, it was in good shape. Too tired to continue, Ignatious gathered his belongings into the cabin and settled for the night.

  Many days later, a party of naturalists setting out on a journey down the Amazon, spotted a ramshackle boat drifting aimlessly along with the current, near to the opposite banking. Steering swiftly over to it, they were surprised to find that it was occupied. The rambling man they discovered, lying on the floor of the cabin, seemed, in his delirium, not to notice their presence and it was decided to get him to the nearest hospital without delay.

  The care Ignatious received was second to none and he was nursed back to something like full health over a period of two months. Whilst there, the staff had made contact with the local Catholic Church, who had verified his position as a missionary and obtained permission for the man, who they now knew as Father Gawain Hadleigh, to provide service with them until he was ready to move on. It was from here that he was summoned to an audience with the Pope and subsequently given his present orders.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

  The two detectives were in Graham’s office at the Met shortly before six-thirty in the morning. Clive stood as his Superior collected up the slim files and placed them into his briefcase.

  They were about to leave for Penn once more, when Graham spotted something on the corner of his desk. There were two typewritten sheets, which had not been there when he left the office the previous evening. Picking up the first, he quickly read the contents. “Ah,” he said to Clive. “It’s a brief autopsy report from Sallie, on Thomas Singleton and it confirms that he was murdered by injection of a poison.”

  “What did he use this time?” asked Clive.

  “ Atropine, according to this. Does the poison mean anything to you, Clive?”

  “Nope. Not a thing,” he chirped. “What’s the other note?”

  Graham reached for the sheet and began to read. “Ah,” he said, “It’s from the Ornithologist.” He read through the short report. “Seems the feathers are from the Hummingbird.” A slow smile spread over his face as he related the last piece to Clive. “The crucial bit is that the particular breed is something of a hybrid and, although rare, is known mostly in the Amazon forests and jungles.” The triumph in Graham’s voice was undisguised. He added: “Now, Clive, where did our Jesuit say he had spent a couple of years?”

  Brazilian Amazon,” he said, acknowledging that his Superior’s hunch was proving to be along the right lines. Not sufficient to convict a man but a giant step forward in the investigation.

  Stuffing the papers into his briefcase, Graham followed Clive to the police car park where they took a vehicle for the journey to Penn.

  Even at this early hour, traffic was beginning to build. However, it was much lighter than it would be in another half an hour and good progress was made to the A40. Once there, the going was steady and they were soon onto the M40 and the route to Penn.

  Arriving at the local police station within the hour, they found it to be manned by a Sergeant Tim Brewster. Apparently George Flint was on his day off. Brewster was a portly, old-time type copper, nearing retirement, and just as genial as George. An over-large moustache drew attention immediately and the seasoned, brown eyes sparkling from the multi-lined face, seemed to understand this.

  “Good morning, detectives,” he boomed. “Early morning journey, eh. Would you like a brew?” he asked before introductions had been made. The pair from the Met wondered how he knew what they were – was it so obvious?

  Turning to put on the k
ettle in the small kitchen nearby, Brewster called over his shoulder: “You’ll be Graham and Clive from The Yard, eh?”

  The pair exchanged glances. “George told me all about you. Said you’d probably be popping back here again sometime.” The chinking of cups reached their ears. “Knew you were fuzz,” using the general description of the police force. “Takes one to know one…or two in this case!” A booming laugh followed the rather weak joke.

  Coming from the kitchen, precariously balancing three cups of tea on saucers, Brewster ushered his visitors into George’s office. Over the drinks, Graham briefly explained his suspicions of the Jesuit and the new evidence on the feathers.

  No longer being surprised by anything humanity threw up, Brewster grunted his agreement. “Yes. It does sound suspicious, I agree. Get the bugger in here; we’ll soon have him talking,” he added, the eyes twinkling.

  “I appreciate the offer, Sergeant, but we need to make a few more enquiries yet,” Graham responded. He did not want to do anything that might jeopardise the case. It had to be right; clear evidence that could be used in a court of law. “We’ll pay a visit to Mrs. Singleton first, and then Father McGiven again.”

  “Yes, whatever you say Detective,” came the toneless response as Brewster finished his cup of tea. “Better be getting back to the desk,” he said, with a big smile, indicating that the hospitality was at an end. Emptying their cups, the two men from Scotland Yard offered their thanks and left.

  Having the address of Mrs. Singleton together with a local town map, they had no problem locating her. The door was opened at the first knock, the bereaved woman having seen them arrive as she looked out from her front room window. Graham introduced them, showing his ID card. “Could we ask you a few questions about Brother Saviour, the Jesuit Priest, please Mrs. Singleton?” he opened.

  She frowned, not really wanting to discuss anything more in connection with her beloved daughter and her ex-husband. The memories were still fresh; still painful. She had just about come to terms with the death of Debbie and accepted it in the light of the Jesuit’s words.

  “Well,” she began hesitantly. “I think I’ve gone through just about everything with the local police – and I don’t really feel like talking about it any more. Is it really necessary?”

  The woman was clearly troubled but Sampler needed to talk to her. She may just offer some kind of clue that could strengthen the case against the priest. “I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Singleton,” he said. “But we will take up as little of your time as possible. I realise it must be painful to you but it could help to apprehend the person responsible for these crimes. We’d like to make sure he doesn’t kill again, if possible.”

  Mrs. Singleton relented, the urgent plea in the detective’s eyes softening her. “Oh, all right, then. Come in.” She turned and led them into the room where Ignatious had so recently brought his holiness and aura to her.

  Inviting them to sit, she followed suit, sitting upright betraying the discomfort she felt, her hands clasped together on her lap.

  Graham smiled, hoping to relax her a little. “Firstly Mrs. Singleton, I understand that you received a visit from Brother Saviour, shortly after Debbie had been found.”

  “Yes. He helped me a great lot. He made me feel as though I was talking to God Himself.” She spoke in a faraway, wistful voice.

  “Quite. Did he talk to you about his past experiences, at all?”

  Elizabeth thought for a while before replying: “No. Not that I can think of.” She then decided. “No; definitely not. He came in and consoled me and put my mind on the right track. He made me realise that Debbie was now safe and she was happy. That is all I should want for her.” She stopped to choke back a tear. “I miss her so much but I must not think of myself. Debbie’s happiness is all I ever wanted for her when she was alive, so why should it be any different now?”

  Graham felt for her. To lose a child must be devastating. For a fleeting moment, he wondered how he would feel if anything happened to his little son, Nathaniel, while he was enjoying illicit sex with his lover. The thought was quickly brushed away, it not being welcome.

  “Did he ever mention being in Brazil?”

  Elizabeth looked at him in puzzlement. “Brazil? Why Brazil?”

  “It’s just somewhere he had lived for a while. I thought he might have mentioned it,” he said, dismissively. “Did he mention Hummingbirds to you?”

  The questions were getting silly now. “Detective,” she said with some frustration. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “I appreciate that some of these questions may not mean much to you, but we need to build a fuller picture in our investigations.”

  Elizabeth stared at the two. “Surely! Surely, you are not saying that you suspect the priest?” she snapped.

  “I don’t imply anything at all, Mrs. Singleton. It’s merely a case of gathering as much information as we can. Many questions help to exonerate a suspect – not that I suggest the priest is a suspect,” he added hastily.

  “I should hope not!” She then calmed. “I have told you all I can, detective. Is that all, now?”

  “Just another couple of questions, then we’ll leave you in peace. “Did Debbie ever mention Brother Saviour to you? Or a priest, even?”

  Elizabeth forced a tight-lipped smile. “For someone who you don’t suspect, you’re certainly asking a lot about him. No. She didn’t mention him, or a priest. I felt she was going to meet someone that day but it wasn’t a priest, I can assure you of that!”

  “How can you be so sure, Mrs. Singleton?”

  “Because, Debbie was wearing make-up and I could smell a faint aroma of perfume.” She smiled. “It doesn’t sound like she would be meeting a man of God, exactly, does it?”

  Graham went on to his next concern. “Your ex-husband, Thomas, Mrs. Singleton.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he present when the Jesuit paid you a visit?”

  “No. He had to get back to his woman!” The bitterness was evident. “She used to be my best friend, too!” she spat. “What are friends for? Not for taking your husband, that’s for sure! As much as I hated him then, it hurt me a lot when I found out he had been murdered.”

  The guilt again invaded Graham. “As far as you know, did the Jesuit visit him at his home, or somewhere?”

  “Yes. I understand from Father McGiven that he spoke to Thomas at the church.”

  “Did Father McGiven tell you what the conversation was about?”

  Elizabeth was becoming angry now. She didn’t want all these questions. She’d had enough. “Certainly not! He is a priest you know! Confidentiality and all that?”

  There was nothing to be learned here, Graham decided, so he offered his apologies, thanking Mrs. Singleton for giving them her time, and left. She was glad to be rid of them and began to dust and polish the furniture furiously, allowing the anger to dissipate with the effort. It would take time.

  “Father McGiven next,” said Graham as they left the Singleton home.

  “Well, we didn’t learn anything there, did we?” replied Clive, “perhaps we’ll have better luck with the priest.”

  Clive again took the wheel and moved in the direction of St. Mary’s. “Do you think we will learn anything that we don’t already know, Graham?”

  A shrug of the DI’s shoulders indicated a semblance of uncertainty. “What I’m looking for,” he said, slowly, deep in thought, “is something to confirm my theories; some comment that may tie the Jesuit into the murders. Every little helps, Clive. Like with Mrs. Singleton. She proved that the man has a powerful effect on people – I’ve actually experienced it myself. He somehow causes confusion in the brain; his presence tends to take over. It’s difficult to explain but, as you will find out whenever you meet him, you feel like throwing yourself at his feet and begging forgiveness for everything that you have ever done wrong. Weird.”

  Clive cast a sidelong glance at his boss, wondering if the case was tipping him over the
edge. “Mmm,” was his only comment.

  “Mrs. Singleton,” continued Graham, “has clearly been affected by him. You’d have thought my questions about the Jesuit were sacrilegious. And, one other thing, she told us that he had spoken to her ex-husband before his death.”

  “What difference does that make?” ventured Clive.

  “It’s the first time he has been linked to a victim prior to death. Before, we understood that he always arrived on the scene after discovery of the body. Small thing but another tiny step forward.

  Arriving unannounced at the vestry of St. Mary’s, the detectives were relieved to find Father McGiven in a welcoming mood. “Come in. Come in,” he urged. “Let me get you a cup of tea and something to eat.”

  The offer was eagerly accepted as the men sat at the priest’s invitation, while he called from the door leading into the church to Mrs. Collins, his general help: “Three teas and some hot, buttered toasted teacakes, if you will, please.” Smiling at her he closed the door and returned to his guests. “So very nice to see you again, Detective Inspector. I expect you are here about the Jesuit, are you?”

  Graham confirmed the nature of his visit and introduced Clive to the priest. “I’m sorry to trouble you again, Father,” he said. “I’m trying to find some order in these awful killings and I must explore every avenue.”

  “Quite. If I can be of any assistance at all?”

  The ensuing conversation went smoothly, the questions from the detectives being put in a conversational way, almost as though in praise of the mysterious Brother and showing keen interest in the stories he’d told to Father McGiven in their earlier meetings. The priest was enthusiastic in his recounting; it was clear that the Jesuit was some kind of a hero to him and, to Graham, demonstrated the effect transmitted by the holy man.